


Just To Hear You Breathing

by AWriterHasNoName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWriterHasNoName/pseuds/AWriterHasNoName
Summary: Back in the Bunker following Sam's brush with death in Red Meat, 11.17  Title taken from Aerosmith.This is my first work, beta'd offline by a friend.  All mistakes are mine.Disclaimer: I don't own the boys.  If I did, we'd be all-HBO up in here.





	Just To Hear You Breathing

Between the pain and the exhaustion Sam was right on the cusp of sleep;he knew Dean was trying to be quiet, but he could still hear him securing the bunker.  The hard scrape of the chair on the library floor, the quiet chink of the ice cubes in his whiskey tumbler, the soft scuff of his feet on the floor, the barely-there snick of the lock.  Sam could see it in his mind, Dean ghosting through the bunker, checking and locking, drinking and muttering.  And worrying, always worrying.  Today had been a close one and Dean wasn’t taking it well.

Sam knew what was coming, the sound he would hear next.  They never really discussed it, except in moments like these. The gentle squeak of his door gives way to a strong silhouette. Sam lets out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  He’s on his left side, facing the door with an empty spot next to him.  He shifts slightly, as if to make more room.

“Don’t move.  I’m tired, I’m a little cross-eyed, and I’mnot fixing your stitches tonight.”

Sam snorts, “You would and you know it”.

A soft sigh. “Yeah, but I’d make it dick shaped and try explaining that one to the next girl you don’t score with.”

Sam lets out another, deeper snort and immediately regrets it with the stabbing throb in his chest.  Dean moves quickly, shutting the door with one hand and resting the other on Sam’s side.  Dean’s soft smirk gives way to a thin-lipped frown. 

“Sammy, I’m serious, don’t move. There’s plenty of room for me.”

Sam isn’t sure, but he thinks Dean makes his way around the bed with his hand on his side the whole time.   Dean pats his hip twice as he slides into bed next to Sam, which doesn’t help Sam judge whether or not Dean’s been touching him the whole time.

Sam lets out a soft sound as Dean gingerly gets comfortable next to him and Dean freezes for just an instant, as long as it takes his brain to process through his extensive catalog of Sam noises. Amusement.  His baby brother is so fucking contrary.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Sam.  This one was bad.”  

Sam reaches his left hand over and pats Dean’s left hand, which has taken up residence on his hip.  An outsider might think it’s weird, but it’s them and they never cared about what other people think.

“Dude, I’m not going to break.  I can hear you frowning, Dean.  I’m okay, I promise.”

Dean settles in, leaning up against the headboard and shoves a pillow behind his head.  He’s bone tired but he knows he’s not getting much sleep tonight.  He never does when Sam is hurt.  The doctors wanted to keep Sam, but they weren’t having it.  They don’t like hospitals and the nurses hate the wary, watchful eyes of a Winchester.  So, AMA it is.

As Dean settles in, his brain helpfully supplies all the times they’ve done this. As his brain counts incidents backwards, he shakes his head to clear the memories before he gets to Cold Oak.  He knows Sam is still awake, though he’s been quiet for a few minutes.  And as sure as he knows what’s going through his own head, he knows what’s going through Sam’s, even before he speaks.

“After Metatron…and Crowley…I missed this part.  By the time you were you again, so much time had passed it felt weird,” he confesses softly.

Dean squeezes Sam’s hip “I know, Sammy.  It’s a fucked up tradition, but it’s ours.”

Sam turns his head slightly.  He can’t turn fully to see Dean’s face, but knows he’s looking down at him. 

“Do you remember when it started?  I remember crawling into bed with you when that Rawhead almost killed you.  I thought for sure that was it and I remember thinking, if I could just stay with you, feel your heartbeat, and listen to you breathing, I could keep you with me.”  Sam pretends his voice doesn’t crack and Dean pretends he doesn’t hear it.

Dean’s eyes well up but he forces himself to bark out a laugh.  “I remember you, all knees and elbows, after I got torn up by that Black Dog back in ’96.  I’m not sure which hurt more, the bites or your bony elbows.”

Sam hasn’t moved his hand from Dean’s, still resting on his hip.  He squeezes, tight, and Dean grins in surprise.  “It was ’97, you got cocky since it was your second werewolf, and I just had a growth spurt,” Sam grouses.  “Sue me.”

Dean wiggles his fingers and Sam takes the hint to ease up.  “Damn, Fezzik.  For someone who’s been mostly dead all day, you’ve still got it.”

Dean knows Sam is rolling his eyes, even as he pats Dean’s fingers in apology. “The worst for me was your deal,” Sam’s voice is impossibly small and Dean swears he’s shrunk down to half size.  Dean’s frown deepens and he shifts, sliding down so he’s no longer sitting up and turning on his side towards Sam.  He knows. Sam slept with his hand fisted in Dean’s shirt for a week after he was yanked out of Hell.  Dean abandons all pretense and closes in on Sam, aware of his chest wound, but holding him close anyway.  “Yeah, well, Buttercup, the worst for me was Cold Oak.  I cried into your stupid hair for a month, it felt like.”

Sam can feel Dean’s heartbeat against his back, Dean’s hand cradling his head, and a tear hitting his scalp.  Sam squeezes Dean’s hand again, gentler this time, reassuring.

“Is that when it started,” he whispers, “when we were teenagers?”

Dean takes a deep breath and is overwhelmed by the memory of a baby blanket and the smell of smoke.  “No, little brother, it started when we were babies.  In Lawrence.”

 


End file.
